


Angelus Redemtio

by Misha Berry (MishaDerps)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kurt is a Darling, Kurt is kind of perfect, M/M, Past Amputations, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Too sweet for his own damn good, Violence, Warren is not a happy bird, Warren needs help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishaDerps/pseuds/Misha%20Berry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warren blames Kurt for his misfortunes. He hates Kurt with all he has. However, when that hatred goes too far, Warren has to stop and question whether or not he really hates Kurt, or whether he hates himself.</p><p>Can be read as Kurt & Warren friendship or pre-Nightangel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angelus Redemtio

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly sleep deprived, but I let it sit for long enough and I still think it's solid enough to be workable. I was initially concerned that I made Kurt too much of a perfect little sweetie, but he's kind of a perfect little sweetie on his own anyway so . . . Hope you like it.
> 
> WARNING: This fic contains a scene in which a character is nearly strangled to death. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe find something else to read.

When the plane crashed, Warren had a split second to regret his life choices before it all went dark. There was a lot of things to choose from, but the regret that came to mind quickest was simply not taking off once his wings had been restored. He hadn’t asked the big blue bastard to fix his wings, and fuck had it hurt too. He should have just taken off. But he’d been sucked in by the power and charisma and followed Apocalypse right to the bitter end.

 

So as the plane went down, in his head he told Apocalypse to fuck right off to hell.

 

Then he woke up.

 

At first, everything felt hazy, like he had been swimming in too-warm water for too long. For a while he bounced along on the current, letting it carry him around and drag him back under again and again. Each time he resurfaced, he became a little more aware of his surroundings. The smell of antiseptic and ventilated air, the metallic whiteness of the place he was in, the rhythmic beeps of machinery, and the scratch of cheap fabric against his skin.

 

When he resurfaced once again, he finally became aware of the pain, throbbing across his back and through his limbs. Groaning, he opened his eyes to the sting of too-bright lights, wondering where the hell he was. There was a nasal cannula strapped to his face, and he was lying on his back in some kind of hospital. Or, was it a hospital? It looked really weird for a normal hospital.

 

The door to his room opened and he glanced over; it was the big blue furry guy from the fight. Yellow eyes looked up from the clipboard to his face, “So you're finally awake,” he growled. It took Warren a moment to realize that the growl was just his voice, not any kind of emotion.

 

Furry Big Guy crossed over to him and took out a penlight, flashing it into his eyes, “You’re extraordinarily lucky you know. Not only for surviving the impact and the plane coming down on top of you, but for Kurt insisting we go back to check if you were really dead or not.”

 

“Kurt?” Warren rasped, coughing when his voice caught in his throat.

 

Furry Big Guy raised a bushy, blue eyebrow. He fetched a glass of water and a straw and held it to Warren’s face so he could drink, “Maybe you know him better as Nightcrawler?”

 

Oh.

 

Him.

 

His feelings on the matter must have been evident on his face, because Furry Big Guy huffed out a small laugh, “I’m taking it you remember. You should thank him though. We were all so exhausted in the aftermath, we might not have thought to check if you were alive under that plane.”

 

Warren glared, “Asshole,” he coughed, sipping his water.

 

“You  _ were _ trying to kill us,” Furry Big Guy said, unimpressed, “Anyway, we pulled you out from the wreckage and treated you as best we could,” he paused, “It’s been nearly six months.”

 

Warren hissed; six months? He’d been comatose for six months? No wonder he was sore, especially if he’d been on his back the whole time.

 

That thought stopped him in his tracks. His wings! What had happened to his wings!? He immediately tried to flex them and nearly blacked out from the pain. He heard something fall to the floor with a metallic clatter. Furry Big Guy bent down to pick it up; it was a metal feather, and Warren began to panic.

 

“Oh dear,” he said, “Now, calm down. There’s nothing to worry about.” He tried to soothe Warren, “You appear to be . . . shedding your metal wings.”

 

“Shedding?” Warren asked, still not really calm. The machines beeped wildly.

 

Furry Big Guy twirled the feather around in his clawed hand, “That’s the best we can describe it. There appears to be bone and muscle growth underneath where they attach. I’m guessing that you're growing new, flesh wings. Like you had before Apocalypse got to you.”

 

Warren took a second to process this, “Oh, makes sense,” he said, finally relaxing.

 

“Really?” Furry Big Guy straightened his glasses, “Normally bones and tissue just don’t grow back in this manner. You don’t seem at all surprised by this?”

 

Warren wanted to shrug (being the usual cool-asshole type that he was), but didn’t out of fear for fucking up his wings again, “Happened before. When they grew in the first time.” He doesn't add that he’s had to regrow his wings several times.

 

“Fascinating,” Furry Big Guy said, “I’d love to get some samples of the tissue and bone regrowing. It could possibly open a lot of medical doors. With your permission of course.”

 

Warren glared, “Fuck you.”

 

Furry Big Guy sighed, “I’ll take that as a no,” he said. He turned and tossed the metal feather into a bin on the counter across from him, where it clattered against several other feathers. That answered why he’d been so casual about the feather just dropping off.

 

“Your injuries have healed enough that we’re starting to wean you off of the painkillers we have you on, but you’re going to be on bed rest for another few months,” Furry Big Guy explained, “We can amputate the rest of the metal wings off, if you think it’s necessary. I’d actually recommend that you do, as it would probably make way for the new growth underneath, especially if you’re familiar with the process of regrowth.”

 

“No. No amputations,” Warren snapped. He dialled back his forcefulness, “I can handle it,” he said, ignoring Furry Big Guy’s questioning look, “Can I turn over though? I hate sleeping on my back.”

 

Furry Big Guy blinked, “I suppose your chest cavity has healed enough,” he said, “Be careful though, I’d rather not have to drain your lungs again.”

 

Warren wasn’t even going to ask.

 

Slowly, with Furry Big Guy’s help, he managed to turn onto his stomach. The relief was near instantaneous, taking the pressure off of his wings. He sighed and Furry Big Guy bunched a few blankets under one side to keep him slightly turned on his side to breath properly.

 

“Stomach sleeper I take it?” he asked, spreading the thin sheet over Warren’s back.

 

Warren grunted and kicked the sheet down so it was at his waist, “No shit,” he grumbled.

 

Furry Big Guy tutted (actually  _ tutted _ ) at him, “Rude.”

 

Warren ignored him and closed his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. Furry Big Guy tutted at him again and puttered around a little, adjusting the machines. After a while he left, leaving Warren to his own company and the steady beep of the machines. After what could have been minutes or hours, Warren fell back into a hazy sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Warren woke up again, he immediately noticed a bald guy in a wheelchair next to his bed, flipping casually through a book. It took Warren a moment to place him as the telepath they had kidnapped.

 

Well this conversation was going to be awkward.

 

“Awkward? Yes. Necessary? Absolutely,” the man said—Xavier, Warren remembered, Professor Charles Xavier. He looked up at Warren and smiled, “Good afternoon, Mr. Worthington.”

 

Warren bristled, feeling what was left of his wings stand up aggressively despite the pain it caused, “It’s Warren,” he growled, “ _ Just _ Warren.” He’d left that life and that name behind him a long time ago.

 

Xavier didn’t seem impressed or threatened, “Of course, my apologies,” he said, earmarking his book and setting it aside, “I’ve come to talk to you about the possibility of joining my school.”

 

“Pass,” Warren said, shifting up onto his elbows to look at Xavier more properly. It shifted his back painfully, but he could deal.

 

Xavier raised a dark eyebrow, “A very quick decision,” he said, “But I understand your hesitance to join us. We didn’t exactly meet you under the best of circumstances.”

 

Warren was about to say something along the lines of ‘fuck off’ when Xavier leaned forward in his chair and patted his arm, “I understand how you must feel, but please, give the matter some consideration. We strongly believe in second chances here, and I think you could really benefit from what we have to offer, Warren.”

 

It was a line he’d heard before from other counselors and therapists and fancy school headmasters, but this time it strangely didn’t feel as contrived, or like Xavier was talking down at him. It was enough to make him stop for a second and think about it.

 

“Why should I?” he asked, actually meaning the question, ‘What’s in it for me?’

 

Xavier smiled, “You’ll have to stay and find that out for yourself, Warren,” he said, “We won’t stop you from leaving, but even if you do, every mutant has a place here, regardless of their past.”

 

With that, Xavier picked up his book and started wheeling himself out of the room. Warren started settling back down into his bed, when he asked, “That blue kid, did he stay?”

 

“Kurt?” Xavier turned back to him slightly, “Yes, he’s stayed on as a student and as an X-Man.”

 

“X-Man?” Warren asked, incredulous at the stupid name.

 

Xavier hummed and stopped to think, “Kind of like a task force to combat threats against mutants and mutant threats against humanity,” he explained.

 

Warren let out a huff, deciding to feel offended by that, “He fucked up my wing, you know. That Nightcrawler kid. That’s why I went with . . . him,” he finished lamely. He didn't know what to say about the whole debacle with Apocalypse.

 

“So he told us,” Xavier said, “Which is one of the reasons we’re offering you a place here instead of asking you to leave. We believe in second chances, of course, but we’re not stupid.”

 

Warren actually chuckled at that, but quickly schooled himself back into disinterested aloofness. Damn drugs messing with him.

 

“Give it some thought, and make your decision based on what you think is best for you,” Xavier told him, turning his chair and heading for the door again, “But remember to rest. You are still healing, after all,” he called over his shoulder.

 

Warren rolled his eyes and settled back down on the bed. He was resting because he was tired, not because he was doing what he was told.

 

* * *

 

The next person to visit him in his solitude was someone he actually expected.

 

Ororo Munroe sat at his bedside, flipping through a book that would probably be way under her reading level if it were her native language. Xavier must have given it to her to improve her English reading skills. Warren remembered his tutors pulling the same trick to get him to improve his French when he was a kid.

 

“So you stayed,” Warren said, breaking the silence.

 

Ororo looked up at him and twitched one elegant white brow (fuck she was really pretty—in that ‘I could kill you with a look’ kind of way) before going back to her book, “Evidently,” she said, accent curling around the word.

 

“Are they scared of you?” Warren asked. He kind of was, because he had seen what she could do.

 

Ororo didn’t look up again, but she smiled into her book, “At first, and then they were not, but now they are again,” she said.

 

“Again?” Warren asked.

 

Now she looked up, “They have seen what I can do,” she explained, smiling.

 

If Warren wasn't as hopped up on drugs as he was, he’d be really turned on right now.

 

“You think they’d be scared of me?” Warren asked, trying to keep his voice even.

 

Ororo shrugged, “Do you want them to be scared of you?” she countered.

 

Warren thought about it; a certain amount of fear was nice, it made people get the fuck out of your way, but he wasn’t sure that  _ that’s  _ why people would be scared of him here. The kind of fear he usually inspired was for respect, not terror. Plus, he wanted people to be scared of  _ him _ , not Apocalypse.

 

“I don't know,” he answered honestly, not sure what to add. His wings quivered and another feather dropped. His wings were mostly just the long metal spines that grew directly from his back, most of the feathers having fallen off by now.

 

“You can go if you want, no one will stop you,” she said, but she paused, getting a far off, slightly happy look in her eyes, “But we are safe here. It's like a big family.”

 

Warren scoffed, “Always hated my family,” he said, “Bunch of self-righteous assholes.”

 

“Suit yourself,” Ororo said with a shrug, “But it’s good here. Everyone is really nice.”

 

“Even the blue kid?” Warren asked. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so obsessed with the kid, but he was certain it had to do with the fact that the little brat had ruined his life.

 

“Kurt?” Ororo looked up again, “Especially him. Sometimes I want to make rain around him, just to see if he creates rainbows.”

 

Warren kind of wanted to laugh at that—because it was funny—but he also didn't want to laugh—because it was  _ him _ —so he chose the middle and scoffed. Ororo laughed, either at herself or at Warren. She closed her book and stood up.

 

“If you do go, maybe talk to him first? He feels very guilty about what happened to you,” she said.

 

Warren glared up at her, “Good.”

 

Ororo scowled, “Be nice to him. He’s really very sweet and he doesn't need any more trouble in his life.”

 

Warren bristled, furious that she was taking  _ his _ side. True, he’d been out of it for six months, but the two of them still shared a unique bond. How dare she take the side of his enemy? He scowled back at her and turned away, for lack of being able to get up and leave his bed.

 

“Ch, whatever,” she said, and Warren listened to her stomp out of the room. She said something else in a language he didn't understand that sounded pretty nasty, then slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. He reconsidered his attraction; he was temperamental enough, he didn't need someone else who would only throw fuel on that fire.

 

* * *

 

Warren was expecting, but also dreading, the next person to come visit him.

 

He was sitting up for once, reading a magazine that someone had left for him, when a knock came at the door. Doctor Hank McCoy (Furry Big Guy, as he’d learned) usually just barged right in without knocking, as did Ororo. Xavier tended to ‘knock’ telepathically, so he was a little surprised by the tapping on ‘his’ door.

 

“Come in,” he called, curious.

 

His curiosity dissolved into annoyance when he saw who was behind the door. Big yellow eyes peered timidly out of a dark blue face, partially obscured by his stupid haircut.

 

“Hello,” Kurt said, inching into the room, keeping the door slightly between them like a shield, “H-how are you?”

 

“Get the fuck out,” Warren hissed. His wings flexed automatically, aggressively, dropping a few more feathers that still clung on.

 

Kurt cowered behind the door, “I just wanted to come in and say I’m so—”

 

“Fuck off!” Warren screamed, throwing his magazine at the boy.

 

Kurt yelped and disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving the door slightly ajar. The magazine passed through a whiff of smoke where his head used to be, smacking against the wall uselessly. Warren growled, suddenly without an outlet for his anger. Muttering furiously, he twisted and started pulling on loose feathers, an age-old compulsion whenever he was pissed and needed to hurt something.

 

Another concussive noise and the sound of the door shutting quietly made him look up. The door was now closed, the kid obviously having risked coming back to shut it so Warren wouldn't have to get up and do it himself.

 

Warren hissed through his teeth and ripped off a handful of metal feathers, their razor edges slicing into his palms and fingers, leaving bloody smears over everything he touched.

 

* * *

 

By the time he was finally able to leave the infirmary, it had been an additional month and a half over his six month nap. His wings were now mostly metal stumps, most if not all of the feathers gone and pieces of the actual wing ‘arm’ starting to drop off as well. Underneath the skin of his back and where the metal met his flesh, his new set of wings were still growing, making the area look swollen and odd under his shirts.

 

When Warren had grown his first set of wings, he’d been around eight or nine, spending weeks with excruciating back cramps before waking up to find blood-streaked white feathers everywhere. His father, mutant hating bigot that he was, had ordered the wings amputated immediately. It had worked for about a year, with no one outside of the family the wiser, until Warren had grown another set of wings, just like the first, which were promptly amputated again.

 

The cycle had continued until Warren was fifteen, and had refused to go through with another amputation procedure. His father, furious, had thrown him out of the house, refusing to even acknowledge his son until the boy ‘learned some respect’ and ‘renounced his mutant lifestyle’.

 

‘Lifestyle’, like it was somehow a choice.

 

So Warren was no stranger to the cramps and aches of growing a new set of wings, but it had been a few years, and he’d never had to  _ shed _ a set of wings. The metal connected oddly to his flesh, and he could feel the joints starting to disconnect from the rest of his body, leaving the metal to drag on the ground behind him.

 

But he was never going to get another amputation. Ever. They’d have to drag him kicking and screaming.

 

The pain was intense, bordering on excruciating if he bumped into something wrong, but he was dealing. His new wings would grow in and he would be able to fly again, he just had to be patient.

 

Yeah, patience was never his strong suit.

 

And it really didn't help that he was  _ stuck _ until then.

 

Like Ororo had predicted, the other students were afraid of him. Six months was a long time to be comatose, but not long enough for people to forget that you had sided with an ancient Egyptian mutant with a God-complex who had tried to take over the world.

 

At first, the only people who approached him were McCoy, who regularly checked his health and healing process, Xavier, who kept trying to, ugh,  _ help _ him (Warren was  _ fine _ , thanks), Ororo, who was an odd kindred spirit, and, strangely, Mystique, who didn't so much as approach him as just simply take no shit from him. When they passed in the hall, he was the one that stepped out of the way, when normally he let the crowd part for him. As much as he was still pissed about everything, he still had mad respect for her, having grown up with her face plastered over everything ‘mutant and proud’; she was a hero to a little boy who kept getting his wings clipped.

 

There was a strict no alcohol rule at the school, so Warren was out one of his usual means of catharsis, and he wasn't allowed to take part in any of the training excercises that the X-Men did—both because he wasn't healed enough and because they still didn't trust him—so there was another activity he couldn't do. And while his wings were still messed up, he couldn't fly either. So Warren was stuck in a place where no one liked him, where he couldn't do anything, and had no means of leaving.

 

It was really pissing him off.

 

“I know it seems bad now, but you just need a little more patience,” Xavier tried to tell him, “Everyone is a little out of sorts when they first arrive. You’ll find a place, don’t worry.”

 

But Warren didn't  _ want  _ to find his place, he wanted to  _ leave _ .

 

“Fuck off,” Warren snarled, resolved to ignoring Xavier. He had cornered him in the hallway after coming from a checkup with McCoy, the only thing he regularly showed up to.

 

Xavier sighed, “If you really want that, we won’t stop you when you’re healed, but please, try and consider all of your options.”

 

Warren huffed and stepped around Xavier, heading for the room they had given him. It was with the rest of the students in the boys wing, but all the way at the end of the hall, with the other male X-Dorks. He wasn't sure if this was meant to be encouragement to stay or if they were supposed to be keeping an eye on him. Either way he hated it.

 

He really  _ really  _ hated that it meant he kept bumping into Kurt.

 

For a while, he didn't approach Warren at all, but stayed well behind Ororo when she came up to him, using her like an extra buffer. As the rest of the little posse she’d gathered started getting bolder towards him, so did the kid, cautiously getting closer, but then darting away at the first sign of Warren moving towards him in any threatening kind of way.

 

Ororo punched him in the arm after he’d growled at Kurt, sending him skittering away, tail flicking anxiously, “Knock it off,” she said, “He’s the one who saved your life.” They had dragged him out onto the grounds near the pond. There was a bifurcated tree on their left.

 

“He ruined it in the first place.” Warren rubbed his arm where she’d landed a solid hit. Damn she was strong.

 

“You’re being a little hard on him, don't you think?” the redhead, Jean, said to him. She was slowly starting to get used to him, quicker than the others, probably due to her telepathy. She could see through his shit.

 

“Kurt’s a sweetie. He really wants to say sorry.” Jubilee, he’d come to learn, didn't really have a filter and blurted out whatever, regardless of who she was talking to.

 

“No reason to be an asshole for asshole’s sake,” Peter said, shrugging casually. This guy just gave no fucks.

 

Warren breathed hard through his nose, “What the fuck would you know about it?” he snapped.

 

“You’ve been out of it for six months dude, Kurt told us what happened.” Scott Summers was a tool.

 

“Kurt told us  _ his _ side of things,” Jean quickly corrected him quickly, sensing Warren’s irritation, “We wouldn't mind hearing yours.”

 

Scott huffed in a way that said he would mind, but Warren reiterated; Scott Summers was a  _ tool _ , “I don't have to tell you shit,” he snapped.

 

Jean sighed and Scott threw his hands up. Ororo rolled her eyes and Peter stood up, “I’m going to find him and bring him back. Don’t scare him off again.” He waggled his finger at Warren but was off before Warren could get up and punch him.

 

“Why are you guys even talking to me?” Warren asked, “Why can't you all fuck off?”

 

“We’re X-Men, we help mutants,” Jubilee said, “And boy, do you need help.”

 

Before Warren could respond to that, Peter returned with Kurt in tow. They were laughing at something one of them said, but Kurt quickly quieted when they reached the rest of the group. He sat next to Peter who sat next to Scott, the farthest he could be away from Warren without leaving the group. He smiled shyly at Warren, white fangs flashing against his blue lips.

 

Warren wanted to punch him.

 

He ignored him for now, instead listening to the inane chatter of the group around him. He’d never really had friends, too scared in boarding school of his classmates finding out his terrible secret, so he didn't really know what he should be doing. Besides that, they weren't his friends, just people he couldn't get rid of until he left. Somehow this wasn't enough to get him to get up and leave them; he told himself it was because the sunshine was so nice and made him feel lazy.

 

* * *

 

As the weeks rolled by, Warren’s mood continued to slide downward. Without any outlets for his aggression, he had no choice but to bottle his feelings inside. He picked at what was left of his wings constantly, ripping off bits of metal and often slicing his hands up in the process. The smaller, secondary set of wings that had grown out of his ribs were now completely gone, ripped out from his constant picking.

 

“You really should just let us remove the rest by surgery,” McCoy tutted at him, bandaging a fresh cut on his palm, “It would save you a lot of pain.”

 

“No,” Warren grumbled, “No amputation, no surgery.”

 

McCoy sighed, “If that’s what you want,” he said, “You’re twenty, so you have the right to make your own medical decisions, even against doctor’s recommendations.”

 

“Fucking right I do,” Warren said, taking his hand back once it was bandaged, “It’s my body and what  _ I  _ say goes, no one else.”

 

There must be something in his tone that made McCoy pause and give Warren a sad look. He said nothing about it and continued to clean up, “Remember to keep it clean and come back in to change the bandages tomorrow. Please, try not to pick at your wings anymore, you're only hurting yourself.”

 

Warren rolled his eyes and hopped off the examination table. Without exchanging any sort of goodbye or gratitude, he stalked out of the infirmary. It was almost dinner time and he was hungry.

 

He did have to admit, having a fully staffed kitchen was something he missed. Though the mansion sometimes reminded him of his childhood home, it was too crowded and lively for the feelings of resentment to settle in for very long. It was also too ‘homey’ to feel like school most of the time, though Warren didn't attend class at all.

 

Dinner was served just as he arrived in the dining room. Warren had to guess that it used to be the ‘ballroom’ of the mansion before being converted into a dining space big enough for the whole student population. Warren looked for an empty place before someone tapped into his head.

 

_ “Over here,” _ Jean called, directing him to his left. She and the others were seated in the far corner, with one place set aside. Jubilee had all but climbed onto the table, waving him over excitedly.

 

Warren groaned, but resigned himself to his fate and stalked over. He wasn’t sure why they kept hounding him, but he supposed it was nice to be around people that actually wanted his company for once.

 

“We saved you a seat,” Jubilee said, grinning widely, “Right next to Ororo.”

 

There was indeed a free seat next to the dark girl, and a plate of food in front of it. Before he could do something like walk away or fake being not hungry, his stomach growled loudly.

 

Jubilee giggled, “Hungry?” she teased.

 

Warren snarled at her, but she didn’t seem concerned at all. She went back to her own plate of food and turned to pick up her chatter with Jean on her other side. Warren, at a loss for anything else to do, sat down at the table and started eating.

 

A tap on his shoulder made him turn. Kurt flinched back at his glare; before Warren could say or do anything, he held out a dinner roll, “Y-You can have mine if you like,” he stuttered, tail twisting anxiously behind him.

 

Warren glared, but his stomach growled again. Kurt gave him a timid smile, still holding out the roll. Warren rolled his eyes and snatched it from him, causing him to flinch again. Warren turned away and ignored him, biting into the roll. If the little blue brat wanted to give up his own food, well, it only saved Warren from having to steal from the kitchens—though the staff never seemed to mind anyway.

 

Behind him, he heard Kurt slink away back to his own seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jubilee pat his arm encouragingly. Warren rolled his eyes and continued with his dinner.

 

Ororo nudged him, “I think you should try and talk to him,” she said, “He really feels guilty and I think it would do you both some good.”

 

Warren sneered, but before he could say something asshole-ish, Ororo grabbed him by the collar and dragged him close, so she was looming over him, “Talk to him,” she ordered, “Before I strike you with lightning.”

 

“Fine, okay, shit.” Warren struggled away from her, “I’ll talk to him,” he said, straightening his shirt, “Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing! Fuck!”

 

* * *

 

The rest of dinner passed quietly, with Warren brooding quietly over his plate and glancing over at Ororo to make sure she wasn’t about to zap him. Over the months, he had come to fear and respect her the same way most of the student body did. She was truly a terrifying marvel of mutation.

 

With that fear in mind, Warren waited impatiently in a secluded clearing on the grounds after hours. Ororo had arranged for Kurt to meet him there so they could speak about what had happened to them. Warren had promised to speak to him, but he hadn’t promised to forgive him, so there was that.

 

Something rustled behind him, and Kurt stepped out of the bushes just as Warren turned to see. It was a clear night, the moon illuminating everything around them in a soft glow, but Kurt was somehow shrouded in darkness, with only his glowing yellow eyes and silhouette visible.

 

“Y-you wanted to talk?” Kurt asked, stepping forward. His features were slowly becoming discernable as Warren’s eyes adjusted.

 

Warren scoffed, “‘Want’ is relative. What I  _ don’t _ want is to be zapped by lightning, so here we are.” He gestured to the clearing around them. There was an old stone bench that looked like it would crumble if you sat on it.

 

Kurt laughed nervously, tail twisting around his body, “Ja, of course,” he said. They drifted into silence for a few moments, “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for your wing.”

 

Warren bristled, “You’re  _ sorry _ ?” he hissed.

 

Kurt shrank back, “I-I did not want to fight, but y-you said they would kill us both. I never would have done that if I had any other choice.”

 

“Do you think that makes it better?” Warren snapped, hating the fact that he was  _ right _ , and Warren had no leg to stand on. He’d told him to fight, he’d  _ forced _ him to defend himself. How many other mutants had Warren fought, killed even, before Kurt was even rolled into the cage in that electrified box? How could he know that Apocalypse would come for him?

 

Warren didn't want to think about any of that, though, he wanted someone to blame.

 

Warren advanced on Kurt, “Do you think I care about an apology? Do you think it makes me feel better to hear it?” he mocked, “Do you think that it makes it all okay? That it makes it all better? Is that what you think I want?”

 

Kurt whimpered, “Wh-what do you want?”

 

“I want to thrash you,” Warren answered easily, “I want to take a strip out of your hide for every second I spend being unable to fly.”

 

Kurt backed up as Warren kept stalking closer. He tripped on the stone bench and fell back, landing on his ass in the damp grass, “W-would it make you feel better?”

 

“Yes,” Warren growled.

 

Kurt flinched, but seemed to find some kind of resolve, “Okay,” he said, voice quiet.

 

Warren was so angry that he was only barely sure of what Kurt was offering. The minute it clicked, Warren was on him, punching and kicking. Kurt yelped once in surprise when Warren lunged, but was quiet as the blows landed. He sucked in a pained breath as Warren kicked him in the diaphragm, doubling over and clutching his stomach, but he never once screamed or begged Warren to stop.

 

After a minute or two, Warren managed to get on top of Kurt, his hands wrapped around his slender neck. He wasn’t even sure how they got in this position, but Warren squeezed with all his strength, past the point of caring. Kurt thrashed under him, gasping as best he could. His clawed fingers scratched at Warren’s forearms, but to no avail; Warren was bigger and stronger, and had the advantage of position.

 

Kurt’s struggles started to weaken, his thrashing slowing to a stop. He coughed once and his eyes rolled back into his head. He was limp by the time Warren realized what he was doing.

 

Warren scrambled back, horrified. Kurt remained on the ground, not waking up. Warren could barely hear over the sound of his own heart thudding in his  chest, but he was certain that the other boy wasn’t breathing.

 

Shit.

 

_ Shit _ .

 

Spurred into action, Warren jumped back on top of Kurt. Calling back what little he remembered from first aid training, he quickly pinched Kurt’s nose closed, tilted his head back to reopen the airway, and started mouth-to-mouth. Two breaths, and then 30 chest compressions. Repeat as necessary.

 

“Fucking hell. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ !” Warren swore as he did another round of compressions, “Shit!” He dove for Kurt’s mouth once more, trying to remember how long someone could go without oxygen before brain damage set in.

 

Suddenly, Kurt jerked and coughed underneath him. He gasped and choked for a second or two, his brain trying to pump as much oxygen as it could back into Kurt’s overtaxed lungs. Warren let out a breath of relief and sat back, body vibrating with the release of tension.

 

The sight of his own bloody knuckles made the reality of the situation set back in, “Why did you let me do that?” Warren asked, part anger and part he wasn't sure, but it sounded a little like fear.

 

Kurt groaned and sat up, one hand coming up to rub at his likely very sore throat; one of his eyes was quickly swelling shut, “I thought it would make you feel better,” he rasped.

 

What the actual  _ fuck _ ?

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Warren shouted, starting to get a little hysterical, “I nearly killed you!”

 

At that, Kurt only shrugged and smiled at Warren, “This is not the worst I have ever been,” he rasped.

 

Warren gawped, not really sure any of this was even real. He must be dreaming, there was no way that what had just happened was reality.

 

_ He’s really very sweet and he doesn't need any more trouble in his life. _

 

Ororo was going to kill him.

 

Groaning and putting his face in his hands, Warren rocked back and forth for a bit. He desperately wanted a drink, or to rip out his own hair, anything that would curb the sick feeling in his stomach. A touch on his shoulder made him jump; Kurt was looking at him with deep concern.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice still hoarse—because Warren had nearly just  _ strangled him to death _ , “You are not looking so good.”

 

_ Sometimes I want to make rain around him, just to see if he creates rainbows. _

 

Yeah, he was definitely dead.

 

He’d nearly killed this kid with his bare hands in a fit of rage and hatred, but here he was, trying to comfort Warren like he’d had a bad day. Not only that, but he’d just implied that he’d had worse beatings than the one Warren just doled out, as if that somehow made it okay. Kurt hadn't fought back or screamed, he’d just sat down and took it; he was pretty beat up too.

 

Kurt was clutching his side with one arm in a way that suggested cracked or broken ribs, the arm in question was shaking in a way that meant that it too was quite possibly broken or sprained, his left eye was swollen shut, and he was bleeding from a cut on his cheek and his nose. His breathing was shallow and wheezy, probably both from the damage to his ribs and to his windpipe. Even though he was breathing now, he probably needed to see Dr. McCoy.

 

Warren stood up abruptly; Kurt flinched backwards, nearly hitting his head on the bench. Warren bit his lip, knowing he deserved the fear, “Get up,” he ordered.

 

When Kurt didn't comply, looking up at him in confusion, Warren snarled, “Get up!” he snapped.

 

Kurt whimpered and scrambled to his feet; he must have stood too quickly, because he started to wobble and pass out. Warren grabbed him by the arm not holding his ribs and slung it around his shoulders, hoisting him up and taking the majority of his weight. Not that there was much weight to begin with, the kid must have weighed less than 100 pounds soaking wet.

 

_ Stupid,  _ **_stupid_ ** , Warren thought to himself as he walked them back to the school. Kurt limped along with him, trying to walk under his own power and not lean on Warren too heavily. He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood, probably from his still bleeding nose.

 

“Danke schön,” he said, a little slurred and still very raspy, “For helping me.”

 

Warren looked at Kurt in disbelief, “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” he asked, “I’m the guy who just beat the shit out of you, and you’re thanking me for getting you to the doctor?”

 

Kurt smiled, his teeth stained red with blood, making him look even more demonic, “But you didn't have to help afterwards. You could have left me there.”

 

Warren blinked, “You are the weirdest fucking kid,” he said. How was he even real?

 

Kurt made a breathy noise that would probably have been a giggle—an honest to God fucking  _ giggle _ —if not for the throat and chest injuries. Somehow, Warren found himself smiling back.

 

They made it back to the school and went straight for McCoy’s room. Warren had already knocked by the time that he realized that he had no explanation for the state Kurt was in aside from the truth—which he very much did not want to share.

 

It was too late though, as McCoy was already opening the door, bleary eyed and fur sticking up everywhere, “This better be good,” he growled, voice rough with sleep, “It’s one in the—oh my stars and garters! Kurt! What happened?”

 

Snapping awake in an instant, McCoy rushed forward and started examining Kurt. He didn't have to look for very long, seeing as the blood and injuries were quite obvious. He stepped back and eyed Warren suspiciously.

 

“What happened?” This time, Warren felt that the growl in his voice  _ was _ out of anger. He’d never felt threatened by the doctor before, but now he couldn't stop the cold curl in his belly screaming at him to  _ get the fuck away _ .

 

“Um . . .” Warren winced at how he sounded; guilty and ashamed.

 

“I fell out of a tree,” Kurt piped up, “I was out on the grounds climbing trees and a branch broke. I could not have time to teleport and Warren was out walking nearby. He saved me,” he said, sounding so earnest that Warren almost believed him himself.

 

McCoy didn’t look as convinced, suspicious look travelling between Kurt and Warren now, “Let’s get you to the infirmary,” he said neutrally.

 

Warren breathed a small sigh of relief; for the moment, he was safe, thanks to Kurt. He helped McCoy get Kurt down into the infirmary, into the same room that Warren had occupied only months before.

 

“Lie back on the table,” McCoy instructed, gathering his supplies. He was shirtless, Warren realized, blue furred torso displayed for all the world to see. Warren wondered if he even realized.

 

Kurt whined as Warren helped him onto the bed, coughing a little. Warren grabbed some tissues from a nearby box and held them to his nose. The bleeding had slowed somewhat, but it was still dripping quite a lot. Kurt smiled at him again and Warren—once again for some unknown reason—smiled back.

 

“What the devil is going on in here?” A voice from behind them made Warren jump. Xavier wheeled himself into the room, looking as sleep rumpled as McCoy, but thankfully wearing a shirt, “What happened?”

 

“I fell out of a tree, Professor,” Kurt said before anyone else could try, “Warren saved me.”

 

“Did he now?” Xavier looked over at Warren, raising a brow.

 

_ He’s a telepath, he knows _ , Warren realized. He tried to muddle his thoughts as much as he could by thinking up inane song lyrics, although the only thing that was coming to mind was a stupid commercial jingle. He turned back around and sucked in a breath.

 

Under the bright white lights of the infirmary, Kurt’s injuries were much more evident. Although his skin was dark blue, the bruises underneath were prominent, staining the flesh almost black. As McCoy removed Kurt’s shirt—thankfully a loose sweater—Warren could see the telltale bump that meant a rib was broken and possibly jabbing into his lung. The cut on his cheek was more of a gash, and would probably need stitches. His wrist was swelling up as much as his eye, so it was probably sprained or broken as well.

 

Worst of all was the poor boy’s neck, covered in a ring of finger-shaped bruises. They could lie all they wanted about a fall from a tree, but it wouldn't make any difference. Anyone who saw those would automatically know what had happened.

 

Warren fought down the urge to be sick. He’d done that. He’d done that to someone who hadn’t even really wronged him, in the grand scheme of things. His wings were growing back, and everything that had happened to him was either his own fault or the result of outside forces not giving them a choice. He’d been angry and decided to take it out on a kid who was as sorry as he was scared.

 

Without thinking, Warren reached for the bruises on Kurt’s neck, either to soothe or reaffirm that they were really there, that he had really done that and it wasn't a crazy fever dream.

 

Before his finger-tips could reach the brutalized flesh, a hand grabbed his wrist, firm but not harsh. Xavier looked up at him, “I think you’ve done enough for one night, don't you? Why don't you go back to bed and we can talk in the morning.”

 

His words were civil and betrayed nothing, but Warren could hear the underlying meaning. He snatched his hand away and all but ran out of the room, not stopping until he reached his room. He slammed the door shut and collapsed to the floor, panting.

 

Reaching behind himself, he grabbed hold of the last two stems of metal and yanked until they pulled free with a wet rip.

 

* * *

 

Warren woke up hours later in a pool of his own dried blood. The two metal stems were still clutched in either hand, glued to his fingers by dried blood. The blood flaked off as he dropped them and tried to stand. Pain lanced up his back and he let out a hoarse cry. The night before came rushing back to him and he groaned, banging his head into the floor. His shirt stuck to his skin, stiff with more blood; Warren delicately peeled it off and threw it into the trash.

 

Grabbing hold of the the edge of his bed, he hauled himself up into a semi-crouching position. Nausea swamped him and he threw up, thin strings of bile the only thing in his stomach worth expelling. Wiping his mouth, he winced as someone pounded on his door.

 

“Angel! You sack of shit! Get out here!” Ororo called over her fist slamming into his door.

 

_ Mega shit _ .

 

Warren stumbled as best he could to his feet while Ororo continued to hammer on the door, shouting insults and epithets in several languages. He wondered for a solid minute if he could just climb out the window and escape, but they were on the third floor and he was more likely to kill himself than get away from Ororo. Knowing her, she would just follow him to the ground and kick his ass anyway.

 

“Warren! Open this door before I tear it apart!”

 

Yeah, he was going to die either way.

 

Deciding on a quick death, he stomped to the door and opened it just as Ororo was bringing her fist down to knock again. A quick redirection and her fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards into the room.

 

Dazed, Warren watched as Ororo stormed into his room. Literally stormed; dark clouds swirled off of her shoulders and hair while lightning crackled around her. The air suddenly smelled like ozone and dropped several degrees, making Warren shiver. Her eyes spoke of stone cold murder, and he shivered for a different reason.

 

“What did you do?” Her voice was like distant thunder, malice and oncoming threat.

 

Warren searched frantically for an escape; the window was looking better and better, “N-nothing! He fell out of a tree!” he said, going with the lie Kurt had cooked up last night.

 

“Horseshit!” she shouted. Lightning arched from her body and struck near his shoulder, burning a hole in his dresser.

 

Warren scrambled back as Ororo advanced on him, wondering if this was what Kurt felt last night, “Do not lie to me, Angel,” she said, voice eerily steady, “I know what those marks are. I know what it looks like when someone is almost killed.”

 

Warren felt shame settle in his belly next to the fear. He deserved this; he deserved the absolute beat down Ororo was about to give him. Unlike the boy he’d ruthlessly battered last night, he was completely deserving of what was coming to him. Resigning himself to the world of hurt that was sure to come, he braced for the first blow.

 

“What exactly is going on here?” Once again, Xavier’s voice cut through the air. He wheeled himself into the doorway, “Ororo, what are you doing?”

 

Ororo turned and was obviously about to say something before Xavier cut her off, “I think there’s been enough violence for one twenty-four hour period, don’t you?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

 

The two stared at one another for a minute before Ororo backed down. She turned back to Warren and snarled menacingly, “This is not over. Watch your back, Angel.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

 

Xavier sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and wheeled himself the rest of the way into the room. His right wheel bumped into the bloody metal stem Warren had left on the floor. Xavier looked around slowly, taking in the damage to the room; from the blood all over the floor and Warren, the vomit down the side of the bed, and the smoldering hole in the dresser from Ororo. He sighed and ran a hand over his bald head.

 

“Despite Kurt’s adamant denial about what happened, we’re not stupid, Warren,” he said, looking down at the boy sprawled over the floor, “Kurt refuses to say anything to incriminate you, so there are two ways this can go.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled together, “Either you can admit to what happened and we can work on some kind of punishment, or you can keep lying to us and face expulsion and possible police involvement.”

 

“Police involvement?” Warren asked, surprised. The school was unsurprisingly insular, and most matters were handled by teachers and staff. Xavier, for all he was an optimist and tried to see the best in people, would rather not have the police poking around the school.

 

“There would have to be an investigation into the incident, and possible charges pressed. As much as I am a telepath, I am also a teacher, and the safety of my students is of the utmost importance. However, as a teacher, I have to abide by certain rules. If a student is attacked on the grounds and no one come forward, I have an obligation to contact the authorities and alert them of the incident. Now,” Xavier’s gaze sharpened, “Tell me what happened last night.”

 

For a split second, Warren nearly lied again, the story about the tumble out of the tree ready on his lips. He stopped however, realizing it was useless. Xavier knew already, and denying it further would only make things worse, “It’s was me,” Warren said quietly.

 

Xavier sighed and sat back in his chair, but before he could say anything, words came spilling forth from Warren, “I didn’t mean to hurt him! I mean, I  _ did _ , but not that much. I was so angry, I-I lost control! I  _ snapped _ and—” Warren bit back a whimper, remembering the way Kurt had gone limp under his hands, “I . . . I did CPR, and brought him to the doctor, but . . .” he took a shuddering breath, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes, “I-I’m scared of what I did.”

 

Warren buried his face into his forearm, trying to hide his tears.  _ Crying was for the weak, Worthington men didn’t cry _ , his father’s voice rang in his ears. He’d always hated crying, hated feeling weak. He was supposed to be strong, he was supposed to be  _ better _ .

 

A gentle hand pressed onto his head, petting his golden curls, “Shh, it’s alright,” Xavier soothed, “It’s alright to cry. No one with think any less of you for it.” He sounded so kind and genuine that Warren felt a dam burst inside of him. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d plastered himself across Xavier’s unfeeling knees, sobbing into them while Xavier petted his hair and rubbed his back.

 

It might have been minutes or hours later when he finally sat back, eyes red and stinging. He sniffled and wiped away the raw tear tracks on his face, trying to stomp down on the lingering shame he felt. Xavier patted his shoulder and straightened, seemingly unconcerned with the wet mess Warren had left on his lap.

 

“We are going to have to punish you,” Xavier said, “But I’m very proud of you for coming forward.” He gave a sad sort of smile, “I suppose I’m a little at fault here. I could see that you were struggling with your emotions and left you to deal with them yourself. I didn’t consider that you might lash out in this way, and for that I apologise,” he said, before switching to a more firm tone, “Still, you did attack another student, and we can’t let that slide. Until we figure out what that punishment will be, we’re going to have to move you to a more secure room. For the safety of the other students” Xavier glanced behind Warren at the charred hole in the dresser, “And your own.”

 

Warren nodded, “Yeah, okay,” he said. It would be better this way, he couldn't hurt anyone else.

 

* * *

 

The ‘secure room’ was more like a fancy, high tech, rather comfortable cell. It was fully furnished and had a full bathroom and a comfy bed. The door locked from both the inside and outside, so both sides had to be opened for anyone to be able to enter or leave. It was underground, so there were no windows, but there was a full bookshelf and a tape player for music. Xavier had also prompted him to ask for anything else he might want.

 

“We’re punishing you, of course, but you’re not a prisoner here,” he reiterated, making sure Warren understood.

 

Warren had welcomed the seclusion, not only for protection from Ororo―because she was for sure still pissed at him—but for the other students. He didn’t want to lash out and hurt anyone else.

 

A year ago, he would have laughed at himself. How many other mutants had he killed or mutilated in the cage? At first it had been simply for self defence, just like the rest. After a while, he had come to enjoy the free usage of his mutation, even at the cost of all the people he hurt. It had been liberating, in a way—despite the fact that he was locked in an electrified birdcage with gunmen trained on him and forced to fight for others entertainment—he’d never been allowed to even have his wings growing up, and exploring everything they could do was exhilarating.

 

Now, all he could think about was Kurt, and how much he’d wanted to kill him. It wasn’t for self defence, he couldn’t claim that crutch. He had to face the fact that he  _ liked _ hurting people, and that he couldn’t be trusted around anyone.

 

Xavier visited him most frequently, along with McCoy, “We’re going to do our best to help you,” Xavier promised, “We’ve never turned away a mutant in need, and we won’t start now.”

 

His wings, now that the metal was gone, were starting to emerge. Little bits of white feathers were starting to poke through the skin. It’s itched like hell, but Warren refused to have any treatment done on them.

 

“Are you sure? I can at least give you something to soothe the irritation,” McCoy offered.

 

“No, thank you,” Warren said. He bit his lip, “How’s . . . how is Kurt?” he asked.

 

McCoy raised a furry eyebrow, “He’ll live, but I can’t really disclose anything else without his permission,” he said, “I can ask him for you, if you like.”

 

Warren paused, not sure if he wanted the boy to know that he’d been asking, “No, that’s okay,” he said after a while. Better to keep it simple.

 

McCoy gave him a look that probably would have been easier to decipher if he wasn’t covered in blue fur, “Suit yourself. The professor and I have finally narrowed down some punishment’s for you.”

 

Warren looked up, “Yeah? What?”

 

“Well, we’ve got the standard sanitation duty for three months,” McCoy said, running his claws through the fur on his cheek, “On top of that we also have kitchen duties. We considered taking away entertainment privileges, but the TV room is open for all students, so it would be difficult to ban you from it. You’re not a student, or an X-Man, so detention and restrictions don’t apply,” he rambled, “Guess you’re stuck with sanitation or kitchen,” he said with a small chuckle.

 

“That seems . . . mundane,” Warren said, not sure he was hearing him correctly.

 

McCoy shrugged, “The professor is a soft heart,” he said, “He can see that you're punishing yourself more than he ever could, so he doesn’t want to pile on anything else unnecessary.” He smiled at Warren, the slight glint of fangs flashing under his lip, “He wants to help you.”

 

Warren nodded absently. As a child, he remembered getting lashed for even minor infractions, so this lenient policy was a little jarring. He was surprised that he was even allowed to stay at the school after all that he’d done.

 

“Your room has been fixed, but Professor Xavier thinks it might be prudent for you to stay here for the time being,” McCoy said, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’ve, ah, well, you’ve made a few enemies.”

 

The memory of Ororo’s stormy fury made Warren shiver a little. He didn't think he’d ever be able to face her again, at least not without getting a bolt of lightning up the ass, “Yeah . . . He’s pretty well liked, isn't he?”

 

“Kurt?” McCoy questioned, “I suppose so. He’s a very . . . cheerful young man,” he said, though Warren could detect an undercurrent of  _ something _ in his voice, “Anyway, you’re wings seem to be doing fine, aside from the itching. I was worried that you might have torn something vital when you ripped the last of the metal out, but all seems well. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

 

“Sure doc,” Warren said. He followed him to the door and locked it behind him. Letting out a bone deep sigh, he slumped to the floor.

 

Honestly, he might be beyond help.

 

* * *

 

Banging on the door close to midnight jarred Warren awake. He jolted out of an unpleasant nightmare and blinked in confusion for several minutes before the banging came back, more urgent this time. Warren, immediately suspicious, approached the door cautiously. He didn't think Ororo would actively seek him out like this to attack him—her temper flared like a thunderstorm, but was over usually just as quickly, leaving you in the cold, unforgiving downpour—but he couldn’t be sure about the rest of them.

 

A quick look through the peephole in the door told him everything he needed. He unlocked the door and stepped back, waiting for his guest.

 

Mystique opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind her, but not locking it. She regarded Warren with a cool aloofness that made him both want to puff up and impress her and turn out his pockets like a naughty child. Silence stretched between them for a long, uncomfortable moment.

 

“Do you know why I chose to save Kurt and not you, that day?” she asked suddenly, making Warren jump.

 

“Uh, no ma’am,” he said (fucking lame-ass idiot!), “I guess maybe he reminded you of you?”

 

The corner of her mouth quirked, “Not exactly, but good guess,” she said, beginning to walk around the cell. Her whole body was loose and casual, but Warren didn’t let his guard drop.

 

Mystique ran her hand along the back of the desk chair, “You know, I was originally there to save you,” she said, “I’d heard about the ‘angelic’ mutant being forced to fight in a cage and I thought to myself, ‘what the hell, might as well drop in and get you out of there’.” She gripped the back of the chair so hard it began to creak, “But, I saved Kurt instead, and there’s a  _ very _ good reason for that.”

 

She turned to face him suddenly and Warren’s whole body tensed as though readying for a fight, “It has nothing to do with you, understand,” she said, voice calm, “And everything to do with him. I have my reasons for taking him and not you, but it wasn't because you were unworthy.” She crossed the room to him in three strides, laying a hand on his shoulder. From anyone else, this might have been comforting, but Warren only felt the need to run and hide.

 

“But I want you to know, if you  _ ever _ , attack Kurt like that again, I will make you wish you were still in that cage,” Mystique hissed, yellow eyes narrowing, “Understand?”

 

Warren gulped, “Y-yes ma'am,” he squawked. Because he was just asking for punishment, he ventured, “What was the reason?”

 

“None of your concern,” Mystique snapped, tightening her grip for a second before letting him go. She walked back to the door, but stopped and said over her shoulder, “I know Ch- the professor never turns away a mutant in need of help, but perhaps you should consider finding somewhere else to call home. You have few friends left here.”

 

With those final, cutting words, she left the room, not locking the outside lock behind her. Warren felt a little sick. The room spun and he lunged forward to quickly lock the door on his side, panting and gasping in fear.

 

* * *

 

Warren refused to leave the cell for nearly two weeks before the inevitable happened.

 

He’d been dreading it since that awful night, knowing that it was coming. He feared it more than Ororo’s wrath and Mystique’s quiet rage put together. He even feared it more than Xavier’s damned disappointment in him—that guy sure had a knack for making you want to be the best possible version of yourself you could be.

 

Kurt knocked softly on the door to the cell, “Warren?” he called, “Are you there?”

 

Warren couldn't tear his eyes away from the peephole; the bruises were still slightly visible under the dark blue skin, but the swelling had gone down completely. There were at least three stitches in Kurt’s cheek and his arm was in a sling. He held himself stiffly, and Warren would bet anything that his ribs were wrapped tightly to keep the broken rib in place while the bone knitted back together. The stark white bandages collaring his neck stood out against the dark of his face, making them seem more prominent than they were.

 

He still looked like he  _ hurt _ , and here he was, standing at the culprit’s door.

 

“What do you want?” Warren asked through the door, not daring to even reach for the lock.

 

“I want to talk to you,” Kurt said, tail swishing behind him, “About what happened.”

 

Warren’s throat went dry, “Why?” he asked. Stupid, he should have just told him to go away.

 

Kurt tilted his head, “Because you are upset about it,” he answered.

 

Every thought in Warren’s head screeched to a halt, “Are you fucking serious?” he spat before he could put a lid on it.

 

Kurt’s tail twined around him, as though it might shield him, “Y-yes? I can go if you would prefer,” he said, as though he was in the wrong.

 

“I’m the one who hurt  _ you _ , and you're here asking how  _ I’m _ doing?” Warren asked rhetorically, “What the hell?”

 

Kurt blinked, “Um, I can tell you how I am doing, if you want?” It came out like a question.

 

Warren banged his head against the door, “Sure, why not?” What even was this kid?

 

Kurt perked up, “Oh! Well, Herr Doktor McCoy said that my wrist is only sprained badly, not broken, so the cast will not have to be on for very long. He also did a great job on my stitches. There probably will not even be a scar, which is good because it would mess up the sima—ah, the symme—hm. The  _ symmetry _ —ha! Of my other scars, which is good,” he chattered, German accent chopping his words up a little, “The bruises are still sore, but I always am like that. In the circus I would fall and feel it for weeks afterwards. It is hard to see sometimes for my blue skin, but I sure feel it,” he chuckled a little at that and Warren couldn't help but smile along with him.

 

“Also!” he continued, “They made a scan of my head and told me that there is no lasting brain damage,” Kurt said happily.

 

“Are you sure about that?” Warren asked sarcastically before he could stop himself.

 

Kurt bit his lip, “I . . . I can ask Herr Doktor McCoy again, if you like.” He made to move away from the door, like he was about to do just that.

 

“No, shit, stop,” Warren said, “You don't have to—I was kidding.”

 

Kurt stopped, coming back to the door, “Do you want to come out to talk?” he asked, “Or maybe I could come in?”

 

Warren suddenly remembered the feel of Kurt’s thin neck being squeezed in his hands, “N-no,” Warren said, closing his eyes tightly and trying not to think about it.

 

Kurt didn't say anything for a long moment, “Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly, almost inaudible through the reinforced door.

 

“ . . . No,” Warren said, “You can stay, if that’s what you want.”

 

Kurt smiled brightly, looking so genuinely happy that Warren couldn’t help but smile again, even though the other boy couldn't see it.

 

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” Kurt asked, “Or maybe you’d like to just talk?”

 

“Just talking would be nice,” Warren said, “Haven't really done that in . . . ever.”

 

Kurt giggled; he made himself comfortable against the wall and started nattering about his day, Warren on the other side of the door. At first he only listened to the blue boy, but eventually he coaxed Warren into sharing his own daily activities.

 

“There really isn’t much to do in here,” Warren said, looking around the cell. It was comfortable, sure, but it was still a very limited space, “Mostly I just sit around and do nothing.”

 

“Nothing can be fun,” Kurt said, “Sometimes I like to just sit and do nothing and think. It is good to help organize your thoughts.”

 

Warren hummed, “I guess.”

 

“Plus, I like to think about mysteries,” Kurt said.

 

“Mysteries?” Warren raised an eyebrow.

 

Kurt nodded, though Warren couldn't see it, “Ja, like how many languages are so the same and so different,” he said, “And why it’s okay for girls to wear skirts, but not boys.”

 

“Ever heard of kilts?” Warren asked.

 

Kurt laughed, “You are funny,” he said, “Do you think of such things?”

 

“Uh, not really,” Warren admitted, furrowing his brow, “I guess I imagine scenarios and stuff, like what would I do if I met a famous person, you know?”

 

“Very exciting!” Kurt enthused. He paused for a very long moment, so long that Warren almost thought he left, “Sometimes, when I'm very disorganized in my head, I think about my parents.”

 

Warren sat up straighter against the wall he was sitting against, “Your parents?”

 

“My birth parents,” Kurt elaborated, “I never met them, but I am always curious to what they were like.” He paused again, “You know, I was found on a riverbank. Meine Pflegemutter said that I was probably going to be drowned.”

 

“Drowned?” Warren’s heart clenched a little.

 

“For the way I am. For my looks,” Kurt said, “She said they were probably going to drown me and then decided to just leave me there instead.” He chuckled, but it sounded sad now, “I suppose to them it was not worth the cold water.”

 

Warren wasn't sure what to say to that, and the silence stretched out between them. Finally, he took a deep breath and said in a rush, “My father had my wings amputated.”

 

“Really? That’s terrible,” Kurt said, sounding genuinely concerned.

 

“Yeah, every time they grew back he’d have the doctor come and amputate them. All the way until I was fifteen and ran away,” Warren said. He’d never told this to anyone before. The only other people who knew were his family and the small team of doctors who worked on his father’s dime.

 

“How awful,” Kurt said, and he truly meant it from the bottom of his heart, Warren realized. This kid felt nothing in spades, he was all in all the time with his emotions. Warren wondered what it must be like to be so unselfconscious.

 

“It sucked pretty hard, yeah,” Warren said, shrugging, trying to keep his cool-guy persona on even though he couldn't be seen, “So I ran away when I was fifteen, after I refused to get them amputated again. I haven't seen or heard from my family since then.”

 

“Do you miss them?” Kurt asked.

 

Warren scoffed, “Why should I?”

 

Kurt hummed, “I don't know. Sometimes I miss the circus,” he said, “They were not always kind to me, but it was my home. It was all I knew.”

 

_ Until he was put in a box and thrown into the cage with him _ , Warren thought. He ran a hand through his hair, “I guess . . . sometimes,” he admitted, “When it’s really early in the morning or really late at night, and it all quiet and I can’t sleep,” Warren said quietly, “I . . . I miss my mom a little.”

 

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door, and then Kurt’s voice, closer, like he’d moved to sit against the door rather than the wall, “I am truly sorry,” he said.

 

Warren said nothing, but after a moment, he moved to sit against the door as well.

 

* * *

 

Kurt came by every day for the next week, happy to just sit and talk to Warren through the door. Warren wasn't sure why he didn't mind, but eventually he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed their talk, and looked forward to them. They were the highlight of his day.

 

“Why do you stay locked up here? Der Professor mentioned that you can leave any time,” Kurt asked. His arm was out of the sling, but was still wrapped in a splint.

 

“Yeah he said so,” Warren said, “I guess I’m still kinda scared of what Ororo will do to me if I see her in the halls,” he said with a chuckle, trying to make light of the situation, “Besides, it’s not so bad in here. Quiet at least.”

 

“Oh, I do not think Ororo would hurt you. Not now at least,” Kurt said, “She is still angry, but I think she would only glare at you.” A pause, “Wahrscheinlich.”

 

Warren laughed, “I think I'll play it safe for now. She's fucking scary when she’s pissed.”

 

“Ach, I know! When Peter crashed into her during training, I thought she might call a blizzard down on his head!” he said, “But she does not stay angry for long. At least to her friends.”

 

“I’m not her friend,” Warren pointed out.

 

“You are  _ my _ friend,” Kurt said, sounding entirely pleased about it.

 

Warren stopped, fists clenching. There was a scrape on his knuckle that hadn't quite healed from that night; it went white and split a little as he dug his fingernails into his palms, “The real reason,” he started, throat dry, “The real reason I'm down here is ‘cause I’m afraid.”

 

“Of Ororo?” Kurt asked.

 

“Of  _ me _ .” Warren squeezed his eyes shut, “I’m scared of what I might do. Of what I  _ did _ . To  _ you _ ,” he said, “All of those mutants I hurt in the cage. How easy it was for me to follow Apocalypse. I’m afraid . . . I'm afraid of everything I'm capable of.”

 

Kurt went quiet for a long time. Warren put his head in his hands, his thoughts a spiralling vortex of self hatred. His fingers twitched with the desire to pick at his feathers, but he couldn't reach the sparse smattering on his back where his wings were still trying to emerge. It was quiet for long enough that Warren thought that Kurt had left him there, alone. His chest clenched at the thought of finally scaring him away; it was probably for the best, but Warren couldn't help but feel a little sick in the pit of his stomach.

 

A loud ‘bamf’ startled Warren, his head jerking back to smack painfully against the door, “Ow, fuck!” he swore. He stilled when he saw Kurt in front of him.

 

Warren’s heart slammed to a stop in his chest; he was too shocked to do anything as Kurt crossed the few steps and knelt down in front of him. Kurt leaned over and took his hands in his own, squeezing them tightly.

 

“I am scared of what  _ I  _ can do too,” he said, “Sometimes, I wake up at night because I dreamed that I teleported myself into a wall. Or worse, that I teleported someone  _ else _ into a wall.” He looked down at their joined hands, “I worry sometimes that I will accidentally scratch someone with my claws. I once nearly took out someone’s eye with my tail when I got excited.”

 

He looked back up at Warren, “Scott told me that sometimes he’s afraid to open his eyes. Jubilee said she nearly blinded someone once. I think Peter once hurt someone really bad with his speed, which is to why he always makes sure to hold onto the neck when he runs with someone. Jean and Ororo . . . They are both so powerful, too powerful sometimes,” he said. The splint of Kurt’s hand dug into Warren’s where it was squeezed between them, but neither boy hardly noticed, “We are all afraid, Warren. That is why we are  _ here _ , in this school. So we can be afraid together.”

 

All of a sudden, tears stung Warren’s eyes. He blinked furiously, but didn’t move to wipe them away. He didn’t sob the same way he had with Xavier, but he leaned on Kurt’s shoulder and let the tears fall. Kurt stayed with him until Warren pulled himself together.

 

He sat back and rubbed away the tear tracks, “You shouldn't be in here,” he said, “How did you even get in? I thought you needed to see where you’re going?”

 

Kurt smiled, “I took a look at the security camera’s for the room and memorized the way the room is,” he said, “Just in case.”

 

Warren closed his eyes and shook his head, “Ridiculous,” he said, “You should go.”

 

Kurt nodded and stood; Warren followed suit and moved away from the door so Kurt could leave. The other side was unlocked, like it usually was, so Kurt didn't have to worry about that.

 

“Hey Kurt,” Warren said just as Kurt reached for the door knob, “I think you’re my friend too.”

 

Kurt beamed, “I will come by tomorrow?” he asked.

 

Warren smiled back, “Sure, I'll see you then.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Warren got very little sleep as he tossed and turned, back on fire. He could feel the muscles of his wings flexing and straining, aching with the need to spread out. With every press he could feel the skin tear, stretched to a thin membrane at this point.

 

As the pain intensified, Warren wondered if he should call McCoy to help him. He could probably help him, at least with the pain. Another flare of white heat lanced up his back and chased all thought from his head. This was it, his wings were going to emerge tonight.

 

This was the only coherent thought in Warren’s head for the rest of the night. Everything else was the burning pain and the intense desire to spread his wings. It was instinctual, almost animalistic. He had the half-thought that this must be what it was like to be born; all instinct and pain, doing what needed to be done despite how much it hurt.

 

Warren gasped as more skin tore, revealing blood-slicked feathers. Groaning, he tried to stop, to slow down and take a breath, but biology had a job to do and his wings flexed non-consensually again. There was a squelching ripping sound and his left wing sprung free, blood spattering the walls and floors and furniture. Warren screamed and arched his back, the right wing tearing free a second later. The pain was so intense that he was sure he blacked out for a minute.

 

When he became aware of himself again, there was a disgusting flap of skin dangling from his side, quickly shrivelling as it dried in the recycled air of the cell. He held his wings aloft, standing straight out from his back, feathers glinting with blood and a bit of slime in the low lighting.

 

Bits of torn skin were everywhere, and there wasn't a thing in the room that hadn’t been flecked with blood, but Warren didn't give a shit about that. The muscles he used to move and shift his wings felt alive again, after months of being distantly numb. It still hurt, but more in that poke-at-a-bruise, hurt-so-good kind of way. The difference from before was astounding, and the rush of endorphins to his head was making Warren dizzy.

 

Warren wasn't sure how long he laid there on the ground, wings sticking up even though the muscles were straining now, but the next thing he knew, someone was knocking at the door.

 

“Warren? Are you alright?” Xavier called, “Please open the door, we’d like to check to make sure you’re alright.”

 

Warren groaned and tried to move. His whole body spasmed, making his stomach lurch, but he managed to get up onto his elbows, one knee sliding up. He breathed heavily through his nose, vision swimming. He felt like he was the weirdest kind of drunk, where he floated hazily on pain and endorphins.

 

Eventually Warren managed to get to the door, his wings dragging behind him, no longer able to support their own weight. They itched like hell, dried blood flaking off with every step. He reached the door and flicked the lock, stepping back so Xavier could enter.

 

The door swung open and Xavier gasped, “Oh my goodness,” he said breathily. He put a finger to his temple, and it took a second for Warren to figure out that he was talking to someone's brain.

 

McCoy appeared a moment later, just in time for Warren to finally pass out, falling forward into his strong, furred arms.

 

* * *

 

This time, when Warren woke up in the infirmary, he wasn’t alone.

 

He almost immediately recognized Kurt’s presence next to the bed, even through his blurred vision—it was kind of hard to mistake him for anyone else. He was reading from a bible, voice a soft murmur in the otherwise quiet room. Prayers, Warren thought belatedly, Kurt was Catholic. He groaned and shifted on the bed.

 

His back ached, but it was such a relief to feel his wings again, the feel them respond to his movements. He could have wept for joy if he didn’t feel so awful.

 

“Warren? Are you awake?” Kurt asked quietly, only just above a whisper.

 

Warren grunted, “Yeah,” he said, turning over a little. Whoever had put him into the infirmary bed—McCoy he supposed—had put him on his stomach.

 

“Would you like me to call Doctor McCoy?” Kurt asked.

 

“In a minute,” Warren said. He blinked one eye open to stare at Kurt, “What are you doing here?”

 

“Visiting you,” Kurt answered easily with a grin, “I was saying some prayers to help you heal more fast.”

 

“‘Faster’,” Warren corrected, “To help me heal ‘faster’.”

 

Kurt shrugged, grin turning sheepish, “Sorry.”

 

“Don't say sorry. Not your native language.” Warren tried to sit up a little, hissing at how sore he was.

 

“I will go get Herr McCoy now,” Kurt said, closing his bible and standing up. He set it on the nightstand and walked out, presumably to find McCoy.

 

Warren settled back down and turned to inspect his new wings. They had been cleaned, which was really nice, and the swaths of dead skin had been delicately cut away, leaving fresh, new skin in patches across his back. Shirts would be a pain (literally) for a while. The feathers were still a little stiff, stuck together in places where they hadn't been preened properly, but they were white and fluffy and soft to the touch. Most of the feathers were still down feathers, like a chick, but it wouldn't be long before his wings were flight ready. Warren ran a fingertip over a primary, giving a pleased shiver at the silky feel of it. 

 

Kurt returned with McCoy in tow, “Well now, you look better,” McCoy hummed, stepping closer, “You should have called me last night, I might have saved you a great deal of pain.”

 

Warren hummed, not really paying attention, still running his fingers over his feathers. McCoy seemed to have the good sense not to bother him further about it and simply started inspecting him.

 

“For now I’m mostly concerned about the skin we had to cut away. The skin under it is very raw and sensitive, and very susceptible to infection. I’m going to give you some lotion to put on it every night to help it heal quicker and keep it from getting infected. It might sting a bit, but trust me, you’ll be better for it,” McCoy said, turning to rummage around in the cupboards.

 

“Sure,” Warren said absently, still transfixed by his wings. He flexed slightly, feeling the pinion feathers shift and rotate to his will.

 

McCoy stopped to watch Warren, “They’re very beautiful,” he said after a long moment.

 

Warren finally looked up, “Thanks,” he said.

 

McCoy smiled at him, “You’ll probably need someone to help put the the lotion on your back, but you can always come down and ask me.”

 

“I can help,” Kurt pipped up, “I do not mind helping.”

 

McCoy chuckled, “No you do not,” he said, and Warren felt like he was missing out on a joke.

 

Kurt giggled and glanced at the clock, “Ach, I need to go meet Jubilee for breakfast.” He picked up his bible and smiled down at Warren again, “I'll come back later, ja?”

 

Warren nodded, “Yeah, see ya.”

 

They watched Kurt leave the room, tail flicking behind him. McCoy hummed, “That boy really is something else,” he said.

 

“No shit,” Warren agreed.

 

* * *

 

Warren sneezed as the chemicals tickled his nose; today he was cleaning the Danger Room, day eleven of his three month punishment. As it turned out, futuristic, high tech training rooms could either be self-healing or self-cleaning, but not both.

 

“This whole room better be spotless by dinner time,” Mystique called, standing tall and haughty near the door.

 

“Yes ma'am,” Warren answered obediently. He pushed the ladder close to the wall and climbed up.

 

Satisfied that Warren was successfully cowed by her authority, Mystique turned and left him to his work. They were slowly trusting him again.

 

Warren rolled his eyes to himself and got to work scrubbing the walls. So far, it hadn't been so bad; most of the students were clean enough in the common areas and he wasn't expected to clean in the individual dorms. The kitchens and dining room were a hassle, with all the food grime everywhere, but he was starting to figure out a rhythm. He was coming to appreciate the serving staff he’d taken for granted as a child; cleaning was hard work, especially in such a big house. Every night he ached all over from the exertion and the constant bending and twisting and scrubbing. Whoever said that cleaning was an easy job had never cleaned a day in their lives.

 

Warren was starting to work up a sweat, scrubbing the walls, when he noticed that the ladder was actually quite high. He stared out at the empty room, which was as wide as it was tall. His wings twitched a little; they weren’t yet strong enough for flight, the muscles and feathers still too immature, but he bet he could probably do some fairly decent gliding from this height.

 

Setting his cleaning supplies down, Warren turned carefully on the ladder, trying not to rattle it too much. He spread his wings to catch as much air as possible and jumped, keeping his body straight but loose.

 

He dipped almost immediately, making only halfway across the room. He landed a little off balance and nearly face-planted, growling to himself. Warren stalked back to the ladder to try again. He was going to get across the room, he  _ knew _ he could do it.

 

Warren lost track of time, jumping and gliding on his new, fresh wings. He could practically feel the muscles strengthening as he worked. He couldn't yet achieve the lift he needed for flight, but the only way to get that was to work hard.

 

“Aren't you supposed to be cleaning?”

 

Warren bit back a yelp, nearly falling off the ladder. Ororo watched him from the door, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. The expression on her face could have been disinterest or cold blooded murder.

 

Warren’s heart thudded in his chest; he hadn’t encountered Ororo since that morning, so he had no idea how to gauge her. She, and the rest of her little X-posse were extremely protective of Kurt, and he didn't think he’d be welcomed back by them any time soon.

 

Still, he was conditioned not to show fear, and stood tall, “So? What’s it to you?”

 

Ororo arched a brow at him and he suddenly remembered that she could throw lightning bolts on a whim. Yeah, he was fucking stupid.

 

“Mystique is going to be angry with you,” she said, “Plus, this is our training room. We were hoping it would be cleaned.”

 

Warren huffed, “Well, if it’s a training room, then I'm training in it,” he said. He flapped his wings once and jumped from the ladder. He’d maybe extended his glide from half of the room to about two thirds.

 

Ororo rolled her eyes, unimpressed. She muttered something in Swahili—or Arabic maybe? Warren had no ear for languages, it could have been gibberish for all he knew—as he walked back to the ladder to try again.

 

On his next jump, a hot curl of air rushed under him, lifting him slightly and carrying him so far across the room he nearly crashed into the opposite wall. As he righted himself, he could hear Ororo laughing at him. He turned to glare at her, but she was already walking away.

 

Warren grumbled and went back to the ladder. He’d wasted over an hour with his screwing around, and he didn't want to think of what might happen to him if Mystique returned and the place wasn't spotless. With a sigh, he snapped on his rubber gloves and got back to work.

 

* * *

 

The other students were afraid of him.

 

It was easy to see in their eyes, in the way they avoided him. They’d been afraid before, but now it was tinged with an undercurrent of revulsion and anger. How dare he hurt such a sweet person like Nightcrawler? What if he went off the rails and attacked someone else? Maybe next time he might kill someone.

 

Warren had underestimated Kurt’s popularity; the whole school seemed to adore him. It was easy to see why, now that Warren’s hatred had faded; the kid was the nicest, sweetest person. It seemed like every student had a story about something nice he’d done for someone. A lot of it was probably exaggerated, but Kurt really was a nice person with a strong moral code. Despite the shit life he’d been given, or maybe because of it, Kurt was kind and noble, the kind of person others aspired to be. A bit of a push over and too nice for his own good sometimes, but just . . . genuinely a good person. Warren hadn't thought there were any people like that  _ left _ .

 

So Warren was basically on the whole school’s shit list for what he’d done, but everyone was too scared to approach him. When he walked through the halls, the student’s parted like the Red Sea, side eyeing him like a leper. It felt awful, being ostracized by the people he should have been a part of. He was finally among mutants in a safe haven, and they probably hated him more than the rest of the world.

 

The worst part of that was the fact the he deserved it.

 

In a strange, ironic twist, Warren’s victim and the source of the school’s aversion to Warren was the only one would speak to him. Every time he would see Warren in the halls, he would break away from his friends and trot up to him, if only to ask him how his day was.

 

Usually, Warren would give a polite answer back and keep on his way. He still wasn't finished with his punishment just yet, and there was always something to clean, so he had an excuse to run away every time Kurt approached him.

 

It was weird, how they had switched roles; with Kurt being the one wanting to confront Warren and Warren being the one to run away every chance he got.

 

Every day, even though he was exhausted after cleaning all day, Warren went out onto the ground to find a spot where he could stretch his wings. He mostly chose a grassy hill that was a bit of a trek from the main school, but it was steep enough for him to glide down. His feathers were growing in quickly, but his muscles weren’t quite strong enough to lift him. So he would glide and flap around, straining against the confines of gravity and trying to get airborne.

 

He was getting better though, and after a few weeks he could at the very least get himself off the ground. Warren grinned, looking up at the stars; soon, he would be able to fly again.

 

It was during one of these sessions that Kurt, once again, found him.

 

“I was curious to what you were sneaking out for,” he said, nearly giving Warren a heart attack when he stepped from the bushes, “I should have figured it was this.”

 

“Don't  _ do _ that,” Warren hissed, “You’re like a damn cat, all I can see is your eyes in the dark.”

 

Kurt’s silhouette hunched a little, “Sorry,” he said. He settled down in the grass slightly away from Warren, shifting around to get comfortable.

 

Warren watched him, mostly tracking his glowing eyes, “Uh, what are you doing?” he asked.

 

“We have not talked since you came out of the cell,” Kurt said, crossing his legs under him, “I was hoping we could talk while you try to fly.”

 

Warren sighed, knowing that there was no use in trying to shoo the boy away, “Fine, sure,” he said, “How was your day?” he asked, knowing that Kurt would chatter for a while. He didn’t really want to talk about his day just yet.

 

As Kurt happily talked about his day, Warren flapped his wings and tried to hover a little off the ground. He could manage a few feet off the ground, but no more than that. It would be a while before he could truly reclaim the skies.

 

“What about your day?” Kurt asked, snapping Warren’s attention back to earth.

 

“Hm? Oh, my day was fine,” Warren said, “Cleaned a bunch of shit, had lunch, cleaned more shit, had dinner, came out here.”

 

“Nothing interesting?” Kurt prompted, “Did you talk to anyone?”

 

Warren shook his head, “No, just you.”

 

Silence rested over them for a while, Warren flapping and Kurt sitting on the cool grass. The nights were starting to get colder, but neither of them were bothered. Warren gave another push and lifted a few more feet before dropping back down to the ground, exhausted and wings sore from the exertion. He looked over at the other boy.

 

“The last time we were out here like this, I nearly killed you,” he said suddenly, “Aren't you scared of me?”

 

Kurt shook his head, “Nein, not at all.”

 

“Why not?” Warren asked, walking over to sit down in front of Kurt so they were face to face.

 

Kurt was quiet for a moment, thinking about his answer, “Bad things can happen to good people to make them do bad things. It is not that they are bad people, only that they feel like the world wronged them, and they must make it right by their own hand,” he said, after much deliberation.

 

Warren considered this for a period, “What makes you so sure that I’m a good person?”

 

Kurt smiled, white teeth glinting in the dark. The clouds parted for a second, letting the moonlight spill over them. The combination made Kurt look particularly impish, “I do not know at all,” he said, “But everyone deserves a chance, don’t they?”

 

Warren stared at Kurt for a minute, then he smiled, “Fucking weirdo,” he said.

 

Kurt chuckled, “I have been called worse,” he said. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched, “I am going inside before I get caught.” He stood up and held out a hand for Warren to take, “Come back with me?”

 

Warren looked down at the hand, then up at Kurt, “Alright,” he said, taking the offered hand. He pulled himself up and they walked back to the house.

 

It wasn’t until they reached the door that Warren realized they hadn't dropped hands all that time. He didn’t really mind much.

**Author's Note:**

> So that was a little intense. I'm still pretty pleased with this even after my initial hesitance.
> 
> German translations;  
> Meine Pflegemutter - my foster Mother  
> Wahrscheinlich - probably


End file.
